Barenboim’s Three-ring Circus
If you follow me on Twitter, it should be obvious that I didn’t enjoy the last of Daniel Barenboim’s Beethoven Piano Concerto cycle at the Festival Hall.
My main purpose in going was to hear Schoenberg’s brilliant Variations for Orchestra, op. 31 rather than the piano concerto, which I expected to be lush, mannered and performed as though 30 years of work from musicians like John Eliot Gardiner, Christopher Hogwood and co counted for nothing. Those fears were realised in the rendition of Beethoven’s third piano concerto, which reminded me powerfully, especially in the first movement cadenza, of Grieg.
The programme announced an “illustrated talk” on the Schoenberg following the break, by which they meant a talk with excerpts from the piece, rather than some kind of even more ghastly PowerPoint presentation.
Barenboim is extremely fond of his own voice, and he’s perhaps the most verbally incontinent maestro since Bernstein, as his Reith Lectures a few years ago and his appearance at the Vienna Philharmonic’s New Year’s Concert demonstrate. Here, he patronised an audience he blatantly accused of not knowing the piece by repeating the theme at least 20 times and then showing how it was transformed throughout the piece.
This is potentially an interesting technique, but was ruined by his insistence on treating us like a bunch of musically ignorant fools, which may be true of part of the audience but is certainly not so for all of it. The result for anyone who knows the piece was that it was ruined by an over-emphasis on the theme and by Barenboim’s characterisation of the other material as “irrelevant”.
The performance of the Variations was OK, and lacked the mannerism and inaccuracies of the Beethoven. But then, something almost unbelievably crass happened.
Normally an educated audience will pause before applauding until the conductor has signalled by relaxing his arms that the piece has concluded, not because he doesn’t think the audience knows the piece has finished, but in order to focus the audience’s minds on the music they have just heard. Abbado does this with Mahler, to the extent that he sometimes waits for a minute or more at the end of a symphony – especially the 9th – before allowing the audience to applaud. The effect of this is extraordinary; there is a very special sound made by 2,000 people trying to remain entirely silent.
Barenboim, on the other hand, waited perhaps a second before announcing “that’s it” over his shoulder. The audience, fully in thrall to his cult of personality, stood to applaud, despite the fact that for a majority of them it was the first time they’d ever heard the piece.
Incredibly, it got worse.
Schoenberg’s atonal music is very cerebral even though at its heart is a searing passion. It has a very specific aesthetic that is almost monk-like. It is pure intellectual music. It has no “story” (what musical academics would call a “programme”). It’s like a Samuel Beckett play, or an abstract expressionist painting. It’s at the junction between intellect and aesthetics. This is why I love it.
Barenboim returned to the podium and indicated that he was going to play an encore and, true to form, decided to introduce it with some pseudo intellectualising. He quoted Milan Kundera in Ignorance making fun of Schoenberg for expecting that people would whistle his music in the streets instead of Strauss waltzes. Kundera’s point is that intellectual art remains intellectual art and rarely if ever transitions to popularity. For an example, think of how many people can sing the start of Beethoven’s 5th symphony compared to the number of can sing the start of (or have even heard) the Grosse Fuge or the Missa Solemnis.
Barenboim’s reading of Kundera was so wrong-headed that he then announced that he was going to play “a Strauss Waltz” (in fact he didn’t play a “waltz” but Unter Donner und Blitz, which is a polka). It’s the most crass thing I’ve ever experienced in a concert hall. It’s like pouring hot chocolate sauce over beautifully prepared sashimi.
In another of his great books – perhaps his greatest – The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Kundera rails against kitsch which he memorably defines as “the absolute denial of shit”. Strauss’s world is in utter denial of shit, set as it is atop the lofty, saccharine heights of kitsch. There is no music more opposite to Schoenberg’s works than Strauss. Barenboim’s reading of Kundera is so perverse that the only possible explanation I can think of is that he was deliberately insulting the audience, as if he were saying “look at this shit that you prefer”.
But I’m certain that’s not what he was doing; the public’s affection and adulation is too important to him, which can be clearly seen when he takes the podium for a solo bow, or stands out in front of the orchestra, blatantly courting a standing ovation. Contrast this with Abbado’s self-effacing behaviour on the podium, or with Salonen, or Boulez, or Mackerras, or any number of more modest maestros. Also, consider his bizarre programme at the Proms a couple of years ago where he paired Bartók and Ligeti with, wait for it, Kodály and Enescu (the only link being the composers’ Hungarian nationality), with an encore by Strauss again (which went catastrophically wrong and nearly broke down, if I remember correctly).
Barenboim is not a servant of the music, and is not an intellectual, despite his pretensions. He is a shameless showman who deserves to be treated as such. I don’t think I ever want to hear him make music ever again.
Why the Royal Opera’s New Tristan Should be Applauded, not Booed
Last night I attended the premier of the Royal Opera’s new production of Tristan und Isolde, conducted by Antonio Pappano and directed by Christof Loy. As has become routine with this most conservative of audiences, the production team was loudly, yobbishly booed.
First, it implies that Loy and his team have been less than honest in their approach to the production, that they are charlatans or impostors. But there’s nothing to support this view at all. You may disagree with their interpretation – for example you may think that Tristan is a tragic love story – but that doesn’t invalidate it.
Second, in contrast with Loy, Pappano received a standing ovation for his conducting, those cheering him conveniently overlooking that he is Artistic Director and that Loy was his own choice as director (which he acknowledges in the programme). Not only Pappano, but also Nina Stemme – the production’s Isolde – are on record as being of one mind on how Tristan should be approached from a ‘non-heroic’ point of view. So the booing of the director doesn’t make any sense. If you’re going to boo, boo the entire creative leadership of the project. (Stemme deservedly received a thunderous ovation.)
The conservative elements of the audience seem to want an entirely literal interpretation of Wagner’s stage directions, but that approach was comprehensively cast aside by his own grandson, Wieland, at Bayreuth in the 1960s. Literalism is dead, and long may it remain so.
The genius of Wagner’s work is that it can survive truly awful productions, and Loy’s is very far from that. In fact, pace the morons who booed, it is insightful and sheds new light on some important aspects of the work.
Tristan is the by far the most compact and consistent of Wagner’s works. It was conceived and composed over a comparatively short period of time, and its philosophical underpinnings are miles from the confusion of Feuerbach and Schopenhauer that plagues the Ring. It is a work of startling modernity, even to today’s ears. It is endlessly young, and as such requires a modern response. It is our duty not to allow it to become a museum piece.
John Deathridge has argued convincingly that Tristan is not a love story, but a death story. I repeat: it is not about love, but the longing for release from the torment of love. It is not about the social mores of the 19th century like some Jane Austen novel. It has universal and timeless relevance. This deserves to be brought out by the production. Strapping Tristan into some heroic plastic armour and slapping a Cornish castle on a painted backdrop are not a noble aim for a modern production.
Can we possibly imagine that if Wagner were alive today that he would have insisted on preserving his work unchanged? Wagner was more radical than perhaps any other composer in history – especially in his use of the most cutting-edge stagecraft available – and would surely have tried to bring his opera as up to date as it could possibly be. To suggest a literal interpretation is to go against the spirit of Wagner himself.
Loy’s production is minimal in the extreme. The stage is laid out exactly the same for each act. It is divided into two sections – upstage and downstage – that are separated by a large red velvet curtain. Nearly all of the singing occurs on a steeply raked grey platform downstage. Upstage, behind the curtain, there is what looks like a banqueting hall, with simple tables, chairs and candelabras. The outside world is only hinted at with large arched windows being sketched in. The walls of this part of the stage are entirely white. It is very strongly reminiscent of the designs for the Dogme film Festen.
The chorus remains in the rear half of the stage – i.e. behind the curtain – and characters only move into the front half when they enter the ‘onstage’ action. In fact, for long periods the curtain is shut, and when it is open the figures in the background are often frozen in place, as if ‘day’ has entirely stopped.
Far from being contrary modernism, this is Loy’s way of highlighting the divide between the world of day – the world that Tristan is tired of – and the world of night, the world of Tristan’s and Isolde’s love. Das Wunderreich der Nacht (roughly: “the wonder-realm of night”), as Tristan calls it.
Behind the curtain – in the world of day, where Tristan is expected to play the part of the Hero – it is boastful, egotistical, male, false. In Tristan’s world of night – in front of the curtain, where Tristan can be himself – there is only the truth of his love for Isolde and the torment it brings.
The curtain is not without unwelcome side effects. At the ‘Insight Evening’ for Tristan put on by the Royal Opera Education Department, Pappano’s musical assistant David Syrus remarked that they were having some trouble with it from an acoustic point of view (Loy didn’t look thrilled that Syrus had revealed the existence of the curtain), and this came out in particular at the start of Act III during the extended cor anglais solo which sounded like it was given from the rather cramped wings, rendering the sound rather boxy and too close to us. Consequently the joyous alarm that goes up when the shepherd sights Isolde’s ship was similarly lacking in resonance and visceral thrill.
There was also a detail which I wasn’t certain I picked up correctly: it looked as though Loy was suggesting that Brangäne failed to give the lovers enough warning of Melot’s arrival because she was having sex with Kurwenal. (Not that they give a shit; they are by that stage “consecrated to death” as Wagner has it.) An interesting idea, but the problem was that it wasn’t possible to be sure what was going on and at least half the house must have been unable to see it at all. Though how right Loy was to have Brangäne issue her warning from behind the curtain, from the world of day.
Loy’s conception of Tristan is as a high-functioning depressive. At the opening of Act III, Tristan – sung with incredibly delicacy by Ben Heppner – is slouched in his seat, mentally dead. His existential angst is the longing for death, for annihilation, oblivion.
Heppner’s performance is open to criticism, and I think most critics will say that the role – in particular in Act II – stretched him beyond his limits. His voice cracked several times – unintentionally – under the pressure of how quietly he was trying to sing. I’ve never heard an opera singer sing so quietly, and it wasn’t by accident: he did it with Pappano’s full support. For much of Acts II and III, the orchestra were often on the very edge of audibility. Heppner reserved the heldentenor voice for the moments that Tristan is playing the hero. Thrilling as Heppner’s voice is in full cry, it belongs to the world of day. In his performance, Tristan’s true voice is muted, almost internal.
This is brave singing indeed. Never has Tristan seemed more vulnerable, more on the edge of sanity. Where most tenors have Tristan tipping into madness only when on the edge of death in Act III, Heppner has him there from the very beginning. His arrogance in the face of Brangäne’s message from Isolde is mere show.
Stemme was a revelation as Isolde, her voice holding up under the intense strain of the first two acts, giving a luminous account of the part and a near ideal rendition of the Liebestod. Most important though was her acting, which was vital to Loy’s conception. Isolde is at times wrathful, haughty, sarcastic, tender, crazed, wildly in love, seductive and longing for death. To bring all these elements of the role through is an extraordinary achievement, especially when combined with vocal beauty, clear diction and highly disciplined rhythm.
Loy’s production is not just brave in stripping the staging back to the essentials – as I said before, this follows in the great tradition of Wieland Wagner’s post-war productions at Bayreuth – but also in small details.
I’ll highlight one here, from the opening of Act II. Isolde and Brangäne argue about whether the light that warns Tristan to stay away should be extinguished. Here the light is one of the candelabras from the banqueting hall. There are three candles. When Isolde puts out the light she actually only extinguishes two of the candles, and is burnt by the second of these. A telling detail: she is not yet sure of herself, and day (the light represents the last gleaming of day in their night-world) is still a part of her world. She longs for Tristan, yet an extended debate about their love is shortly to follow. Only once they have abandoned themselves to the night is the day banished. And so it is that Loy has Tristan extinguish the final candle as their argument concludes and they embark on the beautiful, ethereal duet O sink herneider. In a production of such restraint, these details are crucial.
Tristan is almost impossible to stage, so radical is its pared down dramaturgy, so challenging is the music to both audiences and performers alike. Loy and Pappano have given us a deeply intelligent and thrilling rendition of it with a brilliant cast (I’ve not mentioned how outstanding Michael Volle was as Kurwenal or how insightful John Tomlinson was as King Mark), perhaps the best Tristan cast assembled on stage in London for a generation or more. It is a triumph of thought, of singing, of orchestral playing and of staging. It deserves to be applauded and remembered. Keep your boos to yourselves.
Karajan’s Last London Concert
Just before Christmas last year, as I was putting the finishing touches to my family’s presents, I noticed a CD with Herbert von Karajan’s name on it. It was a
recording of his final London concert, given on 6th October 1988 at the Royal Festival Hall, in which he and the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra played Schoenberg’s Verklärte Nacht and Brahms Symphony No 1 in C minor
To understand how much this concert meant to me at the time, it’s important to realise just how big Karajan was. We’re used to the idea that ‘classical’ is in terminal decline, and there are very few household names left, but at the time of his death Karajan had sold more records than Michael Jackson – 115 million of them. That’s a staggering statistic, even when you account for his vastly longer career (his first recording was made in 1938 and his last in 1989, so 50 years, give or take).
I became a Herbert von Karajan fan in the early eighties. At the time he was easily the most powerful and famous classical musician then living, and he released dozens of his recordings every year. He was reputedly responsible for Sony introducing the CD before they really wanted to, and Karajan announced that he would only record for labels that issued his performances in the new format. His wonderful live recording of Mahler’s 9th Symphony was a CD-only release, and the biggest reason I bought myself a CD player.
Towards the end of his life, Karajan conducted fewer and fewer concerts, and only a handful of those were outside Berlin, Vienna and Salzburg. He came to London in 1987 with an all-Brahms programme, but I was still at school in Somerset at the time and couldn’t think of a way to buy the tickets and get to London and back without getting into serious trouble. My friend Matthew (who sadly died a few years ago) made it because his brother Paul was at college and managed to get the tickets. I have no idea how he got permission to go to London. Maybe he went without permission, although that would have been an almost unthinkable thing to do.
By 1988 I was at Trinity College of Music in London, and once again there was a Karajan concert. I saw the advert in my parents’ copy of The Times but really there was no need to advertise – getting tickets was a near impossibility.
Matthew and I decided that we would have to sleep outside the RFH to get returns. We duly turned up at about 10pm with some pretty useless sleeping bags and tried to get some sleep. We were hassled throughout the night by people who thought we were homeless (this was Thatcher’s Britain), and somehow made it through to the morning. Shortly after 8am the next person joined the queue. The box office – which in those pre-refit days was downstairs – opened at 9:30 by which time the queue had grown considerably.
There was almost immediate excitement: they had some returns. Reluctantly, we had to pass on them: they were £80 each (about £150 in today’s money), and well out of our price range. We wondered if anyone would bother to return tickets that we could afford – if they were cheap enough for us to buy, maybe the people who had bought them would see it as too much hassle.
But we were wrong. At about 10am, three £10 tickets came in, the exact number we were looking for. Looking back, it’s strange that the RFH didn’t operate a one ticket per person policy, which is standard today, but it’s lucky for us that they didn’t. We handed over our cash – it was only a month into the first term, so I actually had some money – and didn’t really know what to do with ourselves. Standing there waiting for the assistant to hand us the tickets was like waiting to see if you’d been given a loan by the bank: that feeling of being totally in some else’s power for just a few minutes, with them having no conception of how important their decision is to you. There could be no real objection to us buying the tickets but, as students, we were very new to the idea of being adults, and used to being despised as spongers.
Suddenly we had the entire day to wait for the concert, which we hadn’t planned for. I think I went back to my halls of residence (such a grand term for a shithole) and slept for most of the day. Later, we met up with Paul and headed for the concert hall. We walked in through the ticket office entrance just to see if the queue was still going; with only an hour or so to go to the concert, it was coiling itself around the building. We found it within ourselves to have a little gloat.
Going up to the bar area, it became obvious that something wasn’t right. Eventually, there was an announcement over the PA system: the orchestra’s instruments had been delayed in getting through customs in France. They hoped that the instruments would arrive within the hour. Deflated, and convinced that I’d now never get to see Karajan conduct, we tried to think of things to do that didn’t involve talking about where the instruments were, with little success. At a loss, I went up to the hall itself to have a look at the stage, which was laid out for the concert, but without Karajan’s special rostrum that he had used since his back operations in the early 80s. I knew that with no special podium there would be no concert.
Gradually, there started to be some activity on the stage and finally, excitingly, Karajan’s podium was brought in and placed at the front. The excitement that had turned to despair returned at an even higher level, and there was an audible change in the conversations going on around the hall. A quasi-religious experience was about to begin.
I was fascinated by the idea that he was in the building. Here, in the same building as me, breathing the same air. It hardly seemed possible that Karajan would descend from his lofty Olympus to come to plain old London, never mind that I was about to set eyes on him.
Karajan was a phenomenon throughout his career. Always controversial, both on and off stage, he was reviled by a great deal of the music business and much of the press. His performances were ‘too smooth’, there was ‘no sense of the journey taken’, a ‘luxury view of a piece’. He was contrasted, unfavourably, with his predecessor at the Berlin Philharmonic, Wilhelm Furtwängler. The famous ‘Karajan Sound’ was too plush, too generic.
But Brahms was, whatever your attitude to Karajan, at the centre of his repertoire. He’d conducted the first symphony perhaps two hundred times or more. He always conducted from memory, which was comparatively rare at the time, and the Berlin Philharmonic were easily the greatest orchestra in the world. If there was a piece to hear Karajan conduct, it was this.
But, before the Brahms came the Schoenberg, a late flowering of romanticism before the great schism that was introduced with the tone row. Karajan had made a well-regarded set of recordings of Schoenberg, Berg and Webern (although today these sound almost unbearably lush to my ears), but he had not conducted any of these works for many years.
The orchestra had taken the stage – no stupid tradition of the concert master (i.e. leader) entering separately in Berlin – and all was quiet. But still he kept us waiting, waiting, waiting. Eventually, the curtain parted, and the tiny, crippled figure of my hero emerged, supported by two acolytes. The orchestra stood, and the entire hall stood and cheered. You very rarely see standing ovations in classical concerts, and I’ve never seen one before the concert started before or since. It was a tumultuous reception, not like for a rock star, but astonished, reverent, respectful, thankful.
Karajan eventually reached the podium, acknowledged the ovation, turned and schooched himself back onto the podium. Having obtained silence from the audience, he raised his arms and began.
The Berlin Philharmonic strings make an astonishing sound. It’s earthy, rich, precise and heartfelt. Even when they play quietly, their sound is intense, like a wonderfully smooth double espresso. This is true even today, when their sound is much less distinctive that it was, but at the end of the Karajan era it was at its most pungent.
Verklärte Nacht starts very quietly, with violas and basses to the fore. It was a thrilling sound, enough to give me goose bumps all over. I was very close to tears. Karajan’s interpretation had changed little from the recordings made in the 70s, but it had acquired a greater urgency and commitment. Surprisingly, it lacked the incredible polish and aloofness of Karajan’s recordings – at this stage there were almost no non-pirated live Karajan recordings available, so one took on trust that the sound in concert was similar to that in the studio. Not so: it was white hot, and often came close to spiralling out of control. The orchestra displayed an astonishing commitment to every note, with every member being fully engaged.
When you see orchestras today, you rarely see the back desks of the strings look like they care. Further towards the front, the commitment levels seem to rise, but even then, it’s nothing compared to Karajan’s Berlin Philharmonic. They moved almost as one, each of them fully in command of their instrument, their instruments an extension of themselves.
The first half was over, and I have no idea what I did. No memory at all. Normally, I will stay in my seat during an interval because it helps to clear the mind for the second half, and is the quietest place you can be at the time. I don’t know if that’s what I did then.
The stage and auditorium filled up again for the second half. Brahms Symphony No 1: at the time, my favourite piece. It’s intensely serious, magisterial and noble. It’s also very beautiful. Musicologists will tell you that Brahms had made several unsuccessful attempts to write a symphony – one of which became his first piano concerto – and that he spent years writing and honing this one. It has a distinct architecture, with the two outer movements being of similar length and character and the two inner ones also being of similar, shorter length.
The piece starts with a portentous, doom-laden pounding on the timpani, with an expansive strings and woodwind accompaniment. In Karajan’s performance, this was like some pounding at the gates of hell: terrifying, intense and thrilling. After this introductory section, the movement continues into a conventional sonata form, but again seemingly weighed down by fate.
This is where criticisms of Karajan completely disintegrate. The idea there is ‘no sense of the journey travelled’ is nonsense. The first movement of Brahms 1st symphony was an emotional slog, the sound intense and immediate, the balance immaculate, the detailing perfect. But at no stage did it feel predetermined.
The inner movements are a haven from the weightiness of the outer ones, and the second in particular is of great beauty. As an oboist, I was driven mad wondering how the Philharmonic’s principle oboist, Hansjorg Schellenberger, could produce such an exquisite sound, so poised, so ethereal. I still have no idea.
The third movement, dominated by a theme in the clarinets, is more lilting and charming, but is extremely short. It ends ambiguously, as if scared off by the hulking mass of the final movement.
Like the first movement, the last begins in ominous fashion, again with timpani to the fore. Karajan’s timpanist produced an extraordinary power from his instruments, enough to cause physical recoil from the intensity of the sound. It’s a movement dominated by two themes – both very famous. The first of these is nearly always compared to the sun bursting out from behind a cloud, and is played on the horn. It’s a transcendent moment, and in Karajan’s performance it was a revelation. There was a sense of the sound blooming, as if the horn player was at the limit of his physical capacity.
For me, the most thrilling moment of the entire symphony is the entry of the trombones. They have sat idle for the whole of the piece to that point, and enter with a powerful, noble, poised chorale. It’s an earth shattering moment. It’s impossible to convey how awe inspiring this moment was – there was a sense of such retrained power, that one had a foretaste of what was to come.
The movement is episodic, and builds its tension by consistently refusing to turn to the darker theme when it seems it must. As the tension builds, so the pastoral string theme returns, and all seems well. But every time, the brass chorale reminds us of the coming battle.
For me, the movement kicks into gear with a beautiful, rasping entry in the violas. Suddenly it’s clear that this is the attempt on the summit, that there will be no more returns to easy, comfortable themes. Victory must be fought for with every ounce of strength.
How to explain the performance from here on? Music naturally makes my heart beat faster, but a great performance, full of momentum and power makes it go wild. I start to feel my pulse all over my body, and I become seized with a desire to move, as if I’m in chains. The music pins me to the seat, and my pulse rises and rises and rises. It’s a thrilling sensation, and not one that can be induced by recorded music, or just any performance. Sometimes it happens against expectations, at a concert I expected to be disappointed by, sometimes it refuses to happen when it seems that it must. I can only explain it as a direct physical connection to the music.
Maybe this is what people call ‘tunnel vision’. I become fixated on a point – usually the conductor’s back – and obsessed with urging the performance on in my mind. Only once – this concert – has the orchestra exceeded what I thought was possible. The frenetic intensity of the last few minutes of the symphony were, without question, the most intense moments of my life. I was crying uncontrollably, both with happiness at actually experiencing this unbelievable sound and with grief at the knowledge that I would never hear anything like it again.
I remembered an interview with an Olympic gold medal winning athlete in which she was asked what they were thinking as they stood on the podium to receive their medal. She said: “This is the most important moment of your life. Make sure you remember it.” This thought popped into my head. I was carried away in pure sensual enjoyment of the sound, and in that state I would forget! I had to remember what this sensation was like, and I would have to compare every moment of my future life to these moments.
The orchestra’s commitment, so impressive earlier, had now become utterly frenzied, almost self-destructive. There was a headlong dash for the end. The sound that a great orchestra produces is incredible. Bear in mind that every single player is a brilliant soloist, each capable of playing the hardest concertos in the repertoire. Each has performed, rehearsed and practised the piece for hours and hours on end. They have become practically unable to make a mistake. When they are inspired to play beyond themselves by a great musician like Karajan, the experience becomes incredibly intense. But when such a great musician lets them entirely off the leash, gives them their head, the result is indescribable. The sound became all encompassing, gigantic, oppressive, utterly thrilling. It felt like a physical weight had been placed on my chest, and the sound itself seemed to course through me. I was transported, delirious.
Only in the final few bars of the symphony is it clear that the result will be victory. The trombones are triumphant, and the entire orchestra blazes. One hundred musicians play as loud as they can, in complete abandon. It seems literally unbearable, and then, gloriously, triumphantly, it is over.
Even at a football match, I’ve never seen anything like the reaction that Karajan and the Berlin Philharmonic received that night. It was sheer ecstasy, shouted out by two thousand people simultaneously. I said that standing ovations are rare, and that’s true. What’s also true is that they gather momentum. First one or two people jump up, then more join them. As the conductor leaves and then returns to the stage, more people stand and eventually a majority of the audience are on their feet. What happened for Karajan was quite different. The entire audience leapt from their seats immediately, and a enormous roar went up. As he slowly shuffled off his bike seat and turned to face the audience, the noise increased until it was an absolute tumult. People had their hands over their heads, applauding as though they’d just seen the greatest goal ever scored, their mouths open, their faces streaked with tears, astonished at what they had just seen and heard.
In the stalls, people started surging down to the front of the stage, throwing flowers into the orchestra, their flash bulbs popping relentlessly. Karajan stared into the applause as though he was standing on the prow of a ship in a massive gale, blinking slowly. He seemed slightly nonplussed. Maybe he had been so inside the music that he had forgotten there was an audience? It seemed plausible given the intensity he had achieved.
The ovation went on for several minutes, and Karajan made the painful journey off and then back onto the stage again. The noise didn’t abate for a moment, as if the audience wanted to keep the performance itself going. Eventually, the concert master signalled the orchestra that he’d had enough, and each member of the orchestra shook hands with his neighbour (they were at that time all men), and left the stage. In Europe, the audience frequently continues to clap and demands the return of the maestro, but in Britain, we give up as soon as it’s clear there won’t be an encore.
We sat in stunned silence. We had heard a miracle, an impossibility. I was seized by the certain knowledge that I would never hear anything remotely like it again. And that’s true today. I’ve been to some genuinely great concerts since – Abbado’s Mahler 7th in Berlin, his Mahler 2nd, 3rd and 9th at the proms, and the 3rd again at the Festival Hall, Simon Rattle’s Turangalîla at the Proms, Temirkanov’s Shostakovich 10th at the Barbican, and so on. But none of them has stayed with me like Karajan’s Brahms 1.
Listening to the CD now is fantastic, and gives me a picture of my mind twenty years ago. It’s an intense experience, and perhaps more brilliantly played than I remember. But what can never be recreated is the sense of overwhelming awe, or powerlessness in front of this astonishing sound. In one sense it’s gone – as Barenboim says, there is nothing left of music once it’s stopped – but in another it lives on inside me. It was an experience that can never be matched, and one that no other art can deliver. It’s why, despite all my reading, music is a fundamental part of my being in a way that literature can never be.
Karajan showed me what can be done, and for that I will be eternally gratefully to him. He was, despite his many faults, a great, great musician. A genius, in fact. May he rest in peace.
